


A Very Cool Picnic Indeed

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Have Their Picnic (Good Omens), Clever Aziraphale, Cool Crowley, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Crowley is reluctant to experience this thing called a "picnic", but Aziraphale has a plan for one...with a very definite plan to make it special.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	A Very Cool Picnic Indeed

Crowley was determined to be cool. After all, he’d had a hell of a long time to practice. _Cool and nonchalant with a swagger_. Yep. That was his M.O., all right.

Nobody had mastered the artful rendition of _“What’s up?”_ or _“Hey, guys, is there a problem?”_ better than he had. 

He had also made the coolest, most hell-bent things designed to annoy humans: Firecrackers. Rose thorns. Leaky fountain pens. Traffic lights that never synchronized. Those plastic strips on packaging that read _tear here_ that never actually _tore there_ and never would.

Yup. He was _coolness_ personified, and he would be damned if one very uncool angel was going to change that any time soon.

Nope. Not happening.

“Crowley?” The Uncool One stood in the back room of his bookshop. There was a large wicker basket with handles on the desk. “Did you hear what I asked?”

“Er…mm…ungh,” he muttered, though he swore he made it sound nonchalantly hip. _A picnic?_ Yes, he’d heard that.

He simply hadn’t _believed_ it.

Aziraphale tapped the basket lid. “I’ve got some delicious brie with poppyseed crackers, and there are bagels with smoked salmon cream cheese. Some strawberries, grapes, and pears. Plus a truly decadent gauteau, and I’ve put a small cooler inside for the bottle of Riesling.”

_So_ uncool. “Yeah, well, um.” Crowley wondered if he weren’t slouching enough. The ability to slouch while standing, hands deep in his jeans pockets, in a manner which clearly stated _I am totally beyond disinterested_ was something he _owned_ , damn it. 

Why couldn’t Aziraphale _see_ it? 

“I thought perhaps we could drive out to Kew, if you don’t mind. I haven’t visited the Gardens in simply ages.”

“A picnic.” He finally managed to get the word out. “You want to go on a picnic.” 

“Yes. Did I not make that clear, my dear fellow?”

Was that a note of _tetchiness?_ “Yeah, perfectly. I’m just not following the train of thought inside your head that said, _Crowley enjoys picnics_.”

Aziraphale did that thing that _he_ was the past master of: the pleading pout. Eyebrows knitted _just so_ , eyes gone wider by _precisely_ the right amount, lips pursed _ever_ so slightly. “I thought you might be willing to give it a try.” He paused for emphasis – another angelic trick. “For _my sake_ , that is.”

“Oh, that’s your game, is it?” Crowley wasn’t falling for any heavenly wiles, not this time. _He_ was the one who did the tempting, thank you very much. Because he was the _cool_ one. “Trying to appeal to my better nature? I don’t have one, remember?”

“Of course you do.” Aziraphale did that other thing that he did so well – he _beamed_ at him. As if Crowley were _nice_ deep down and simply didn’t want to admit it. “I’ve always known you weren’t exactly, shall we say, _committed_ to the demonic lifestyle.”

“Yeah, but—“ Maybe not, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t disreputable, albeit in a charming fashion. And disreputable beings simply did _not_ go on picnics. “It’s too _nice_.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “A picnic is too nice? Don’t be ridiculous.”

_Uh-oh_. He’d upped the ante – first the pleading pout, then the beatific smile, and now the eyebrows. A trifecta of perfect entreaty. Which he had rarely been able to resist. “People with children and dogs go on picnics, Angel. _We_ go to bars and drink enormous quantities of alcohol.”

Aziraphale walked over to the stand where his coat hung, and lifted it off. “Precisely. We are too predictable. I want to do something new.”

Crowley took his hands from his pockets to run them through his terribly stylish, very cool hair. “What’s so fabulous about sitting on a load of damp grass to eat? You can eat anywhere. Without _ants_.”

Aziraphale put on his coat. “I have a thick blanket. And a vial of peppermint oil to sprinkle about. Ants hate the aroma of peppermint.” He smiled. “I read about it in a book.”

“Naturally.” Crowley sighed. He really couldn’t resist the trifecta. There was nothing for it but to resign himself to a couple of hours of being totally uncool. Not, he supposed, that anyone was keeping score other than himself. 

Still. It was the principle of the thing. He had _standards_. Or rather, a decided lack of them.

“ _Fine_.” He glared at the basket. “I’ll go on a bloody picnic. For _your_ sake. But it is _not_ going to be _nice_. Got it?”

“Absolutely. Understood.” Aziraphale picked up the basket, and nodded towards a blanket hanging over the sofa arm. “Would you mind carrying that out to the car?”

He trotted off happily. 

Crowley stared at the thick wool blanket.

It was _tartan_.

At least he got to drive fast, though not for nearly long enough. _Humans_ would likely take half an hour or longer to get from Soho to Richmond. He managed it in eighteen minutes, flat. 

His Bentley was the epitome of coolness. And his driving skills could have won a Grand Prix. The trip made him feel better about the whole silly endeavor – for a while – for as long as he was barreling down the road at speeds which would frighten a jet.

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale commented as they approached their destination. “I had no idea you’d be so _eager_ to get here.”

“Eager?” Crowley instantly slowed down. “ _Eager?_ I’m not eager! I always drive this fast! I’m driving _demonically_.”

“If you say so.” 

“I did say so!” _Honestly_. He crossed Kew Bridge and got over onto Ferry Lane. “Why don’t you do something constructive and miracle up a parking spot.”

“Naturally.” 

The perfect spot opened up just as he pulled into the parking area. 

Somehow he wound up carrying the heavy basket while Aziraphale carried the blanket. They headed off down the path leading towards the Palm House.

The day was quite warm and sunny, with a light breeze. Plenty of people were strolling about, and Crowley noted quite a few picnics underway. People with children. People with dogs. People with children _and_ dogs.

And as they walked along, he also noticed more than a few couples lounging on blankets, behaving in decidedly romantic ways.

This gave him pause.

Picnics weren’t something he and Aziraphale went on. Picnics were for families. Picnics were for children. 

And picnics were also for people in love.

He frowned.

He was debonair, damn it. He was suave. He was _louche_.

He did _not_ go on romantically inclined picnics.

Crowley darted a glance at Aziraphale strolling beside him. He looked happy. There was a bounce in his stride. He smiled at the romantically inclined couples they passed by.

_Oh, dear._

“How far do you want to lug this blasted basket?” he snarled.

“What? Oh, sorry, is it too heavy?” Aziraphale slowed his pace to gaze around the lawns. “That looks like a lovely spot over there, beneath the chestnut tree.”

As if he knew a chestnut from an oak from a whatever tree. He only did houseplants. “Where?”

“Come along.” Aziraphale led him off the path and over to a very tall tree with a large canopy. He spread out the blanket. He took a small bottle from his coat pocket and sprinkled drops of peppermint oil around the edges to deter any ants.

Crowley gratefully set down the basket. “How much wine did you pack?”

“Only the one bottle.” 

_Not nearly enough._

Aziraphale sat down beside the hamper and began pulling out items. 

How exactly, Crowley wondered, did a sophisticated, urbane demon sprawl in an unaffected manner on a plaid blanket? He considered the alternatives. 

Definitely not the way an angel sat, cross-legged. Should he sit with both legs bent at the knees? Probably unwieldy for holding a plate and a glass – his long legs and bony knees would get in the way. Perhaps with one leg bent and the other straight out? Easier for eating, but he knew from experience that his straight leg had a tendency to go to sleep when he sat that way. He could possibly lower himself onto one side, propped up on an insouciant elbow.

He sighed. The last position sounded as if it would produce the most free and easy look, but it also sounded like the most painful on this solid ground, despite the cushioning of the grass and the blanket. 

So he finally dropped down on the other side of the basket from Aziraphale and sat cross-legged. 

_Damnation_. It was comfortable.

He watched as Aziraphale unloaded plates, forks, wine glasses, cloth napkins. This was followed by several plastic containers, and the bottle of Riesling. He didn’t bother with a corkscrew. He simply snapped his fingers and the bottle was suddenly opened.

“We’re near the rose garden,” he said. “I can smell the fragrances.” He poured out the wine and held out a glass.

Crowley took it and drank heartily. _Roses_. Wonderful. “How romantic.” He tried hard to sneer the word, and for some reason completely, utterly failed. _What?_ What was he _thinking?_

“Yes, it is rather,” Aziraphale replied in a breezy way, not looking at him, but focused on removing the tops from the containers. “Brie?”

“Er…um…yeah. Fine. A bit of everything, in fact.”

“Oh? You’ll actually eat something for once?”

“I eat. Sort of.” More like nibbling, truth to tell. 

Aziraphale started arranging food on both plates. “Most of it comes from that deli down the street from the bookshop. Always reliable. I’m sure it will all be delightful.”

_Gah_. Crowley shivered. Delightful. Lovely. Charming. Downright heavenly, if it came to that. _I am not succumbing to angelic charms_. 

He studied Aziraphale’s precise, practiced handling of each item he positioned on the plates. He was always so thoughtful about everything he did. He took great care, especially when it came to food. 

“There you are. There’s plenty more, too, if you want.”

Crowley took the proffered plate. “Thanks.” 

They sat there, facing each other, with the basket between them serving as a table for their plates. He picked up one of the crackers with brie and popped it into his mouth. The cracker crunched against his teeth as the soft cheese practically melted on his tongue. 

Aziraphale did the same, and as he bit into his cracker, Crowley stared at him, imagining the way the textures would blend on the angel’s tongue, rapt at the sight of him delicately licking his fingertips as he let out a satisfied sigh.

Crowley shook himself. Why did he so enjoy watching Aziraphale consume food? Why was it such a vicarious pleasure?

_Stop that_ , he told himself firmly. “Good cheese,” he said nonchalantly. He ate another piece, and then tried a bite of the salmon cream cheese bagel. It was good.

Aziraphale gazed at him, and then suddenly smiled as he popped a strawberry into his mouth.

_Oh, hell_.

Crowley focused on his bagel, while trying ever so hard not to imagine the sweet juice of the strawberry cascading across the angel’s tongue and trickling down his throat. _Not thinking about that at all_.

This wasn’t a picnic. This was a well-calculated ploy. 

The question wasn’t whether Aziraphale was trying to make a romantic gesture right here, right now. 

The question was, did he want to accept it, right here, right now?

He decided not to look up as he concentrated even harder on eating his salmon cream cheese bagel. 

“Mm,” Aziraphale said. “This is intriguing – try a bite of the salmon, followed by a grape. Savory, then sweet. Like _this_.”

_I am not looking at him_.

He looked.

Aziraphale ate a piece of the salmon bagel, smacked his lips, and then immediately put a grape in his mouth and bit down. “Ah. Delightful contrast.”

Crowley took a large sip of wine. “Is it really?” 

“Yes – do try it. Perhaps even _closer_.” He placed a single grape on top of the bagel and bit off the piece. He sighed after finishing. “Sweet and savory mingled together. Works well, don’t you think?”

_I know what you’re doing, you devious bastard._

He contemplated his savory bagel. He never had been much of an experimenter when it came to food. That was his friend’s job. He was quite good at it, too. _Sweet and savory together_. Fine. _I’ll call that bluff, and raise you a pear_.

Crowley took a bite of salmon-cream cheese bagel and followed it instantly with a bite from a pear. Aziraphale liked pears very, very much. The combined taste was a little odd at first but as the different flavors merged, he found they _did_ complement each other quite nicely.

“Bet you’ll like _that_ combination,” he said.

“Good idea.” Aziraphale tried it, and nodded his agreement. “Lovely.”

“Positively captivating.” 

They slowly worked their way through the meal, and Crowley forgot all about his resolve not to look. 

He watched Aziraphale eat a handful of grapes, closing his eyes in pleasure after each one. 

He watched him eat another cracker with brie, which he topped with a single strawberry.

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t dined together a thousand thousand times or more. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been enraptured by Aziraphale’s enjoyment of food before. 

This was not a restaurant. This was a _blanket_ under a majestic tree in a splendid park by a fragrant rose garden with romance all around.

Aziraphale bit into his pear again. Little drops of juice trickled down his chin. He swallowed, and then dabbed his cloth napkin at his chin…and across his lips, lingering there.

“Angel.” Enough was enough. The air needed clearing, and he was about to clear it, one way or another.

“Yes? Does everything taste all right?”

“Yeah, everything is just tickety-boo.” He drained his wine in one long gulp. “Except _you_.”

There went the eyebrows again. “Me? My dear fellow, I can’t imagine what you mean.” 

Crowley gulped. Was that a _gleam_ in Aziraphale’s eyes? “This whole picnic thing – what exactly was your motive in all this – this – _attention?”_

“Yes, I did take a great deal of care with it.” Aziraphale smiled again, gazing at him in a positively winsome way. “You see, I felt it would be good for you to try something discomforting.”

“What?” Crowley quirked an eyebrow, utterly confused. “You _wanted_ me to be uncomfortable?”

“My dear, you have spent an unconscionable amount of time swaggering about in an attempt to be a reprobate, when all the while – and I say this with the safety of a large basket between us – you were actually rather _nice_ at heart.”

Crowley stared at him. “Nice.” 

“I said it before and it’s still true. Just as it was true when I called you just a little bit of a good person. This is a lovely, _nice_ occasion, and you are _enjoying_ it. Stop resisting your own nature for once.”

“I am not enjoy—“ But he did stop. He looked around. _Really_ looked, without putting up the blinders of _coolness_ and _demonic disreputableness_ first.

The sun was shining down warmly on them in diffused rays through the magnificent chestnut tree. A faint rose perfume drifted through the air, mingled with traces of peppermint oil. A trace of delicious wine lingered on his tongue. And he had eaten enough food to feel wonderfully sated.

Aziraphale sat there, looking ever so comfortable and ever so familiar and dare he think it, ever so lovable and loving. He had put a slice of the chocolate gateau on his plate. He cut into it with his fork, and speared one bite on its tines. 

He leaned forward, holding it out at arm’s length across the basket towards Crowley. “Taste?”

In that moment, something inside him snapped, broke, and fell away – the part of him that insisted, from the day he entered Hell, that he was _dark_ and forever damaged and nothing could possibly change that. The part that he had conquered by embracing it with all the swaggering, brazen bluster that he could command. The part that could never be _good_.

Aziraphale had refused to see only that part. He could see the whole of his being, and deemed it worth knowing.

Crowley leaned forward, and clasped Aziraphale’s wrist to guide the fork into his mouth. He licked off the piece of cake. He closed his eyes as the chocolate melted inside him, sinful to the core. 

He opened his eyes, still holding the angel’s wrist. “ _Thank you_.” He let go.

“My pleasure.” Aziraphale cut off a second slice of the gateau and Crowley held out his plate for it. They ate their desserts in silent accord.

After finishing the last of the food, and a second glass of wine, Crowley helped repack the basket. Then he moved it off the blanket. He stretched out each leg in turn, then brought them up, knees bent, arms resting on top. 

Aziraphale still sat cross-legged across from him, watching his every move. “Comfortable? I was thinking of having a little lie-down.”

“Were you.” _Full of surprises today._

“Resting after eating is highly recommended.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers.

Two pillows in tartan pillowcases appeared at one end of the blanket nearest the tree trunk, side by side. 

Rather _closely_ side by side – touching, in fact.

“You know,” Crowley said, “if you were human, I’d suspect you of trying to seduce me.” There. He’d said it. 

Aziraphale took off his coat and folded it neatly. Then he stretched out, lying full-length on his back. “This is pleasant. The pillow is _quite_ soft.” He patted the blanket beside him.

Crowley glanced round. There weren’t any people nearby. Not that he cared all that much – but it would be a pity to spoil this outing with nosy humans. Just in case any decided to walk by in the near future, he snapped his fingers to create an invisible, demonic wall around their blanket.

Then he stretched out alongside Aziraphale, settling his head on a quite soft pillow. As he lay there looking up through the sun-dappled leaves, something else let go deep inside him – his long-held need to keep his love for the angel tightly bound, wary of bringing harm to him by attracting Heaven’s attentions. 

Nor did he need to cling so strongly to his conceit of being disaffected. He smiled knowingly to himself. Maybe he could be _cool_ on alternate Saturdays, and save the rest of the time for a wonderfully uncool angel.

Who seemed to know him better sometimes than he did himself.

And who had just taken his hand in his own. 

“Hello there,” Crowley said softly. 

Their fingers intertwined. “I’m not going too fast for you, am I?” Aziraphale replied.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You are never ever going to _outcool_ me, Angel.”

“I don’t suppose so, but it’s fun to try.”

“Fun,” Crowley repeated. He turned his head towards Aziraphale, and found him gazing back, with a little twinkle in his eyes. _Fun. Of all things._ If Aziraphale could surprise him still, after six thousand years of friendship, then he was very much looking forward to six thousand more. 

He raised his other hand to the angel’s face, brushing his fingers down one cheek. “This picnic of yours – it was always meant to be the romantic kind, wasn’t it?”

“In the absence of any children or dogs, I believe that’s the only reasonable assumption to make.”

“Sometimes you have a very odd way of going about things, Angel.”

“I suppose I do.” Then he closed the few inches between them, and kissed Crowley on the lips, ever so lightly, and ever so quickly. “Love is very odd, don’t you think?”

He wasn’t thinking much of anything just then, other than, _more_. “Very.” Crowley slid his hand behind Aziraphale’s head to pull him back into a longer, deeper kiss. Aziraphale let go his hand to wrap his arm around Crowley’s waist as he turned on his side, moving even closer into him. A warmth flowed through him like a shimmering flame, and heat flowed between them as if without barriers, as if they were only one, not two.

He kissed and was kissed again and again, amazed by Aziraphale’s tender affection, and more than amazed when a flare of passion momentarily stoked the fire within. His heart yearned for more – for anything and everything Aziraphale could give. He held on, and in holding on to love, he let go of the fear of being thought foolish, let go of his unneeded facades, and embraced that kernel of goodness that an angel had discovered buried at his core, and had brought forth into the light.

When he came up for air, not that he really needed it, he said, “Angel, I love you.” Not coolly, not nonchalantly, but fiercely, with every ounce of devotion he could call forth.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes.” He took Crowley’s hand in his again. “It so happens that I love you, too.”

“Probably a good thing.” 

“A very, _very_ good thing indeed.” Aziraphale brought his hand to his lips to kiss it. “My dear, I believe our first ever picnic could be called a success, don’t you?”

Crowley brushed his hair as he said, “Do you have any other new things to try that might cause me discomfort?”

“Hm. Possibly. I’ll have to mull that over.”

“Do that.”

They lay side by side for some time then, in their miraculously invisible cocoon on a tartan blanket beneath the spreading chestnut tree, enjoying their friendship and cherishing their love.

And they never were bothered by ants.


End file.
